


we'll sit beneath the apple tree

by christinaapplegay



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, it’s overly soft? and has no actual plot? but here have it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinaapplegay/pseuds/christinaapplegay
Summary: "As Judy and Henry and Charlie stand under apple trees and look up, the sunlight creates an effect through the leaves, filtering speckled light upon them. Jen takes so many pictures she loses count."domesticity! apple picking! softness!
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 29
Kudos: 66





	we'll sit beneath the apple tree

“Wait, you’ve really never been apple picking?”

Judy looks up at her from across the counter, hands stilling as she dries the edges of the sink. “I really haven’t,” she says with a shrug, quickly occupying her hands with something else just as monotonous—scrubbing countertops. 

Jen bunches the tea towel in her hands. She watches as Judy’s bicep flexes, and the tendons in her hands appear, her fingers growing slick with little soap bubbles. Jen blinks herself out of it, tired from the day, she figures, and she looks up and then tilts her head at Judy. “Seriously?”

“Scouts honor,” Judy says, giving a half-smile. 

“Never even as a little kid?” Jen says it before she considers that Judy’s childhood wasn’t made up of family-friendly activities like apple picking. Judy doesn’t look phased, but Judy also doesn’t let on, and Jen doesn’t want to add to it, so she bites her tongue from spilling something worse. 

As Judy floats around the kitchen island, she shakes her head casually, and there’s something in her demeanor that signals to Jen _it’s fine._ Judy says, “I don’t think I know anybody who did. I feel like it’s maybe an east coast thing?” 

“Hm, could be,” Jen says, squeezing the towel in her hands. She’s not sure why she’s so surprised that Judy’s never gone apple picking because it makes perfect sense that it’s not a California thing; Ted had never gone either, not until they took Charlie the year he started walking. 

“Ted and I used to take the boys to this farm right outside of town every October. They had apple trees, and we’d pick a few pounds of apples, and then I’d make apple pie the next day. It was a whole thing.” 

“ _You_ making apple pie?” Judy teases, leaning her hips against the counter. “I’d love to see that. I might even go as far as pay to see that.” 

“Hey, knock it off,” Jen says, swiping the towel across the counter at Judy, who easily dodges it as she laughs and laughs, and in turn makes Jen laugh, too, like some sort of ripple effect. “I can obviously follow a fuckin’ recipe. And maybe I used store-bought crust. So, sue me.”

“I’m sure it was delicious every time, Jen,” Judy says, a lilt to her voice something sincere. Judy smiles as she folds the towel and places it by the sink. When Judy’s done, she says, “Wine?” 

Jen nods eagerly, going to grab two glasses from the cabinet. “The Bordeaux, please, Judy.”

“Ooh,” Judy says, a smidge suggestively, as she heads for the wine, “someone is feeling fancy this Monday eve.” 

Jen huffs a laugh as she comes back to the counter, and sits at one of the barstools. “Someone _is_ ,” she says, pointedly. 

Judy glides over with a smile, bottle of wine in hand. Judy saddles up to the right of Jen, at the adjacent corner, and Jen notices that the material of Judy’s dress at her shoulder is drooping slightly, the small expanse of skin now visible. Judy’s hair is up in a bun but falling, so much so that the hair tie is nearly useless. She looks beautifully lived in, comfortable in her own home. Jen watches Judy pop the cork, how her hands curl around the screw, and work to release it. Judy grunts when it pops and Jen wishes she could say it’s the wine that turns her face red. 

“Ready?” Judy draws out the ‘y’ and wiggles her eyebrows, and Jen slides her glass towards Judy. There’s something sweet about Judy’s excitement as if they haven’t been doing this for months now. It’s relieving, too, since Jen feels exactly the same, and knowing that neither is tired of the other. She waits patiently until Judy fills her glass, and they can cheers, and fall into their nightly routine. She pulls out the chair to her left for Judy, who then says, “oh, just let me grab the crossword.” 

“Do hurry back,” Jen says sarcastically, and then takes a sip of wine. 

At first, she thought it was an old lady activity, doing the newspaper's daily crossword every night. It had started, Judy joining her at the counter after dinner, months ago now, when one night Jen was up late and working and Judy had taken her place beside Jen on the barstool with a glass of wine and a crossword and the annoying sound of teeth biting a pen cap. Jen had ignored Judy, not interested in giving in to senior citizen activities before she’s even graced 50. 

And then Judy asked her, “name of the fourth planet from the sun?” and Jen didn’t know it, and neither did Judy, and it turned into something of a competition, who could find the answer first. It lit Jen’s competitive side. Only briefly, really, because she found that working together to figure a question like, “western honey bee lifespan?” was more rewarding than winning would be. It’s kind of gross, actually. But nice. But also gross. 

Now, she only feigned disinterest. She thinks Judy can see right through her, though. She always can. 

Judy sits back down next to her, and Jen joins in immediately, and it’s not because she loves crosswords, but because she loves the person so invested in the “actor opposite Anne Hathaway in the fashion movie?” question. 

“I think that one,” Jen points at three-across, “is baked ziti.” 

“Ahh,” Judy makes, pen counting if the letters fit within the boxes, “I think you, ma’am, are correct.” Judy nudges her shoulder into Jen’s, and looks at her with a smirk, “You always say you are no good at this, but look at you. Baked ziti, Jen! You knew it so fast.” 

Jen snorts, fingers tapping the stem of her glass. “I think this is the easy level, Jude.” 

“Well, yeah,” Judy says, penning the letters in, “I do this for fun, not to cry because I can’t figure the words out.” 

Judy continues filling in the boxes, wiggling her shoulders in a little happy dance each time they figure a word. Jen watches her and she wonders if Judy would even want to go apple picking. Jen hasn’t gone in years, and it might be nice for her and Judy to take Henry, and Charlie if he doesn’t fake carelessness for once. 

(As a kid, Jen had gone apple picking every October, never missing apple season, always visiting the same orchard. It was something she looked forward to in the same vein as Christmas; leaving the city for the day and running through a field of trees. As she grew older, and into her teens, it had been a welcome escape, a daydream she lived in until it was a distraction that grabbed her and let her live in the memory of being a kid. Even when her mom was too sick to go, and her dad didn’t care to do much of anything other than stay by her mom’s side, she’d take the train, then a bus, and then walked a quarter mile to get there. The dedication had been embarrassing, clinging to the vestige of something so juvenile, but she still did it, over and again, the event a sort of yearly marking like a birthday.) 

“Do you wanna go?” 

“Hmm?” Judy makes, crossing out seven down. 

“Apple picking.”

“Oh, we don’t have to just ‘cause I—"

“No, Judy, I mean, I _want_ to take you,” Jen interrupts, stopping herself before she says something insane, pours out how special apple picking was to her growing up, and how maybe _they_ could begin forging new memories, replacing deceit and lies and dead bodies. God, she’s getting so fucking sappy. 

( _Or_ , maybe Judy’s just carving the space for Jen’s natural sappiness never before supported. Either or.) 

With a shrug, Jen says, “And I’m sure Henry would like to go. I don’t know about Charlie, he might say it’s lame, he might go and complain, who knows. We haven’t gone for a few years now, actually.” 

Judy twists the pen between her fingers. She smiles softly, and says, “Well, I’ll go only if Charlie goes,” and Jen smiles back. Judy leans her head on Jen’s shoulder and says, “And we can make the pie together.” 

*

Because this is California, Saturday afternoon apple picking is done in eighty-degree heat, the sun a kaleidoscope through trees. 

Charlie had agreed on going, and Jen thinks it might be because Henry begged him to come along. At 16, Charlie has grown into an older brother who is fiercely protective, yet the first to strike an insult upon Henry when the opportunity hits. 

(It seems normal, but such an odd juxtaposition Jen had asked Judy if she knew anything about that behavior, and Judy had decided that checking parenting books out from the library was the way to go. Not just looking it up online, or anything. They need a full book on How to Talk to Your Adolescent.) 

Jen watches them from ten or so feet away, her sneakers picking up dust as she follows behind the boys. Charlie had been giving Henry a quick refresher course on how to use the picker, “get the stem and yank it, dude,” and Judy should be joining any second, deciding she needed to check out the fruits and veggies stands first. 

Somehow, Judy can sneak up silently, and suddenly, she’s there, beside Jen, saying, “Hey, do I look like a mom to you?” 

“What exactly are you accusing me of, Judy?” 

Jen takes Judy in; her floppy hat and knee-length sundress, the boots she was instructed by Jen wear (it’s so fucking dusty), and Judy quite honestly does look like one of those mom’s who talks about wishing she could live in a hippie commune, and the light hits Judy in such a way that it filters through her hat, leaving little dots of light on her face. It’s sort of something magical. 

“No, sorry,” Judy says, laughing, and they walk in tandem behind the boys, “The lady at the fruit stand said something about “my boys,” and it took me a second to realize she thought Henry and Charlie were mine.”

“Oh,” Jen says softly, not allowing her body to betray her, to melt and blush and get misty-eyed. That’s Judy’s job, after all. “That’s sweet.” 

“And it got me thinking, about the other day, at the library, where I saw the Fall Activities in Laguna magazine,” Judy begins her sort-of-ramble, and Jen nods along, and recalls that’s exactly how they got onto the subject of apple picking anyway, “Henry forgot his library card, and when we went to check out his books, the librarian goes, “is this mom?” and points to me, of all people!” 

“Makes sense. And Henry said yes?” Jen watches him reach up, up, up, into the tree yelling “score!” when he gets two off the same stem. 

“He did. I guess they can look up his name, and he could check books out as long as a parent is there,” Judy says, “so, I was just curious. Two times within a week. It just made me think.” 

Jen wants to confirm for Judy what they all—Henry, and Charlie, and her—think, but before she can gather the courage to, Judy says, “But now, actually, I’m worried that it was a breach of the law. Confidentiality or something.” 

Jen laughs. “Judy, it’s the library. What’re they gonna do? Ban you?” 

“Jen,” Judy says, pointedly, “do not even joke. The library is a godsend. They do so much for the community. If I were banned from the local library I have no clue what I would do. As a matter of fact, I learned to make that cauliflower buffalo chicken dish _you_ love so much from a vegetarian cookbook from the library.” 

“Oh, I see what you’re saying.” 

“It would just be such a shame.” 

“There are other libraries, Judy.” 

“Yes, but to even be banned from one! Word would spread, I’m sure.” 

“Judy Ann Hale banned from Laguna Public Library for fraudulent activity” has a classy ring to it, though.” 

“Not funny, Jen.” 

The afternoon goes on in a haze. The boys show Judy how to use the fruit picker, and she’s so gentle with it that the first few times she tries, she gets the teeth on the stem, and she barely pulls, and she gets nothing. Charlie tells her to yank it, and eventually, she gets down three little ones, sort of donut-shaped. Jen mostly watches and picks a few, and in a moment of earnestness she blabs about how she loved apple picking as a kid, and Judy listens like she's being told a fairy tale, and Jen has a feeling she’ll share the full story, maybe later, or at least sometime. There’s something about the sun that lends to the chimerical feel, a dreamlike haze under the October sky, the orchard acres quiet, and mostly bare of people. 

Judy is usually the one five feet away, occupied with taking pictures, stealing shots of her, almost always candidly; maybe a picture of her and Henry looking at strawberries at the farmer’s market, or at a booth with bushels of flowers, or her and the boys having ice cream by the water; no matter the setting there’s always some sort of memory-making going on. 

As Judy, and Henry, and Charlie stand under apple trees and look up, the sunlight creates an effect through the leaves, filtering speckled light upon them. Jen takes so many pictures she loses count. 

*

The next day, Jen reads over multiple apple pie recipes and just hopes. She and Judy had washed and soaked the apples and started the filling last night, neither of the boys too interested in helping this time around. Jen had said that if they don’t help, they don’t get any, but Judy had reassured them she was kidding, “your mom’s just being a jokester,” when she kinda wasn’t. 

Judy had vyed for grocery store duty, going to pick up whipped cream, so as she’s gone to the store, Jen sits at the breakfast nook, and tries to memorize, at least a little bit, what to do, and in what order. 

When Jen hears the front door open, and the clack of Judy’s boots, she mutters to herself, “you might not need all the water, don’t pour it all in all at once, the dough should not be sticky, and it should easily come together.” 

“Jen, this is so exciting,” Judy says as she walks into the kitchen. She sets her bags down on the countertop and quickly begins rummaging through the one with screen printed bougainvillea. “Vanilla oat milk ice cream,” she says wide-eyed and wondering and walking toward her. 

“Oh,” Jen says, taking the carten from Judy, and examining the _Oat Wow!_ logo. “Yip. That sure is... oat milk ice cream.” 

“You’re not excited?” Judy says, her shoulders animatedly slumping over. “I thought you loved oat milk, I thought I converted you!” 

“Well, okay, don’t use the word converted, please, it gives me catholic school flashbacks, and I do, I prefer the oak milk, yeah, but…” Jen pauses, and huffs, biting the bullet, she says, “Charlie has been giving me shit for it. He hates it, apparently, and keeps asking me why we’ve gone dairy-free. Which I know we haven’t, so I told him what you told me—”

“That oat milk is one of the most environmentally friendly milk alternatives?” 

“Yes.”

“Oh, good.” 

“And then he asked me if we are gonna go for sustainability why we couldn’t at least have almond milk like a normal person—”

“Did you tell him that almond milk is like, the least sustainable of milk?” 

“Yes, Judy, I did. Told him about the water and everything.” 

“How it takes a gallon of water to grow one almond?” 

“Yes. Well, I think I said it takes a quart but whatever.” 

“Close enough,” Judy says, then clicks her tongue, “I’m sorry, I had no clue Charlie had a vendetta against oats.” 

“The kid does hate oatmeal, so,” Jen shrugs, “we just won’t tell him the ice cream has oat milk in it.

“I thought we weren’t lying anymore, Jen.” 

“We aren’t. White lies don’t count.” 

“How can they not count?” 

“Because I say they don’t.” 

“Oh,” Judy says, smugly. “And what mommy says goes?” 

“Exactly,” Jen says, confirming with a nod. “Now, grab the egg wash for me, please.” 

(Everyone seems to think Judy’s softened her, lovingly sandpaper smoothed her edges, turned her into someone who cries at animated movies, at a puppy playing fetch in the park, someone who is dangerously sentimental and spews out I love you’s like she’s programmed to twenty times a day, but truly—Jen’s always had a soft center with a delicate shell, faux tough like a toddler. Judy has given her the space to express this softness, the reassurance that if she displays herself genuinely, it’s all reciprocity. 

It’s why baking an apple pie from scratch for the first time goes so smoothly. 

Judy opens up Jen’s world; Jen’s never felt so sure of herself in the kitchen. They had taken to cooking most nights, and together, and slowly they became a well-oiled machine, whether it be pasta or waffles or apple pie, so it goes.)

They’re side-by-side at the counter, each with a task of their own; Jen’s attempting to repeat the directions for the crust in her head, her hands doing something like avoiding overworking the soon to be dough when she somehow makes the wrong move and a puff of flour plumes in their faces. Judy turns to the side and coughs, and Jen coughs, too, fanning the air, and then says, “Shit, sorry, hon.” 

“That was like a vortex,” Judy says, and Jen chuckles, and when she takes a look at Judy, she’s got flour on her cheek, dusted perfectly like rosy blush. 

“You’ve…” Jen stalls when she gains Judy’s gaze.

“What?” Judy says, “something on my face?” and she wipes the flour on the back of her hand. 

“Ya got it,” Jen says, her hands starting to work again. 

“All better?” Judy says, delicately tapping her cheek like she’s showing it off. 

“Uh, huh,” and Jen, ever one to act before her brain sends the nope signal, leans in and pecks Judy on the cheek. 

“Oh,” Judy says, and right away Jen’s internally freaking out because why was _that_ of all things her natural inborn instinct, but Judy doesn’t need to know this so Jen stays calm. “What a welcome surprise.” 

Jen lies, and honestly, the dough _is_ overworked, “Don’t flatter yourself, I just thought that’s what the tapping meant, you know, a little smooch,” she stupidly touches her own cheek and leaves a bit if floury-dough, and Judy, after a second that melds eternity (where Jen wonders if the egg wash has gone bad), Judy, of course, brushes it off, cranes up and kisses Jen’s cheek. 

“I like that signal,” Judy then says, and she leans into Jen a little too much.

Jen laughs it off, and honestly now she’s just weirdly caressing dough, trying not to make eye contact with Judy. Jen watches, though, as Judy reaches into the bag of flour and coats her hand, only to rub it on her nose, and smile directly at Jen. 

Judy taps her nose. 

Jen bites the inside of her cheek. 

Maybe she’ll surprise Judy. 

She gently wipes the flour off and kisses Judy’s nose. 

It had gone so quiet Jen can hear the blood rushing through her ears, the sound of her breathing turning labored. The eye contact is sharp and unrelenting, though Judy’s eyes are soft and that of a savior. She trusts Judy. She inhales. She reaches inside the bag of flour, and then she touches the side of her mouth. 

Judy’s eyes widen only slightly, a look close to awe and admiration, and Jen loses all reservations and taps where she placed the flour. 

She starts to regret the impulsivity because it’s clear Judy has grown hesitant, but the damn breaks and she never thought it would be this easy. Judy’s lips are a bit dry from the flour, but Jen presses in harder and Judy squeaks, and when they pull back their noses brush. 

Judy smiles like she’s shy, and she says, “I _really_ like that signal," and maybe Jen does, too. 

She notices the light sunburn on the bridge of Judy’s nose. She leans forward and she kisses Judy there on the burn, and says, “I’m glad we aren’t using a store-bought crust.” 


End file.
